


intimate strangers

by distortopia



Series: remissio [1]
Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Bruce is being a stubborn asshole, Clark is being a saint, Gen, Pre-Slash, introspective as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-06 18:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6764383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortopia/pseuds/distortopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first meeting as Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne goes a little bit differently -- nearly a year after Superman's fight with Zod, Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent end up on the same cruise ship. What's more, they end up sharing rooms; but not by choice. </p>
<p>A reimagining of their first meeting in the comics (Superman/Batman Annual 001) in the universe of BvS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, their first meeting in the comics, as Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent... is so fanfiction it's freaking unbelievable. sharing beds because of a mix-up in booking? seriously? first time I read it, I went nuts. I highly recommend it, it's hilarious.   
> I couldn't resist the idea of having this in the Bvs Universe, the plot bunny nagged at me for days. 
> 
> I hope you'll like; if you do, don't forget to leave a comment. writers EAT them to SURVIVE. also, my first language isn't English, so I apologize profusely for any mistakes.

”It’s the blasted computer system. Infernal machine! All other cabins are completely booked, and you two... were accidentally assigned to a single room. I am mortified–”

Bruce hangs his long coat by the mirror, resists the overwhelming urge to massage the bridge of his nose and sigh. It only takes one shake of his head, and the clerk stops his incoherent ramble, like a child.

”It’s nothing to lose your head over, I’m sure an arrangement can be made”, Bruce says with a lighthearted smile. He leans in conspiratively, with a wink. ”Especially if my roommate is a lady.”

He had hoped that would calm the man down. Bruce Wayne was known for his carefree ways; it wasn’t like he couldn’t pay the other person a substantial amount of money to relocate to different accomodations. Either way, he did not plan on staying long; his Batsub was steadily following the ship, at a moments reach. The gossip mongers would have their due: Bruce Wayne, having the time of his life on a cruise to Bermuda, while the Bat enjoyed the solitude of his Cave, and the streets of Gotham.

The sweaty, brittle receptionist barks out a nearly hysterical laugh.

”The _gentleman_ is due to arrive right about this hour, actually–”

That’s when the door opens, and Clark Kent walks in.

Bruce cannot deny. The first thought that went through his head was, _are you fucking kidding me._ Because what were the chances that, of all the people who had booked a room for the cruise, he’d end up in the same room with Superman himself?

After the initial shock wears off, he wraps himself in the comfort of his old bitterness. _Of course_ the fates would have their cruel irony; the alien with the power to wipe out the entirety of the human race was standing awkwardly in the doorway, his glasses crooked, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

”I’m sorry. Is this not room 52?”.

The clerk turns around to explain the situation, his voice cracking several times. Bruce watches the shadow of pity play on Clark Kent’s features, follows the way he delivers a compassionate smile.

”Stop apologizing, these things happen. You need to calm down. This isn’t that big of an issue,” he tells the skittish man, resting a hand on his forearm.

He turns to Bruce next, hand outstretched. ”Hello, my name is Clark Kent. And your roommate for the next week, it seems. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

Bruce opens his mouth to say, _I’ll pay you your salary for a year, just sleep on the goddamn deck,_ and feels his hand reaching for his checkbook. This... was something he did not prepare for.

Less than a year ago, he had seen Wayne Tower collapse.

He had held a trembling child, crying for her mother, while two gods battled and trampled upon the lives of men. The ridiculously normal, friendly reporter in front of him was responsible for the deaths of thousands; masquerading as the Messiah of humankind, becoming more and more involved in the workings of the world, until humanity would yield to one of its greatest weaknesses: the wish to be saved, absolved, ruled – so that existence had a purpose. Drawn to power like moths to a flame.

But power could not withstand its own weight. Power was what made the world spin, and what sent the head of men spinning – and if men were so easily corrupted, what could be said about a being from another planet? Power could not be trusted with anything, originary on Earth or otherwise, as it was the most alluring sort of poison.

He’s thought of all of this before. Stared at screens with grainy footage of flowing red capes, did his research; followed the trail of miraculous saves to Smallville, Kansas. Stared again, even for a longer time, at the yearbook photos of one Clark Kent, birth certificate forged. A smiling, blue-eyed kid no one would think twice about.

This was an opportunity.  

He grasps Clark Kent’s fingers in what others would deem a bruising grip, an easy smirk on his lips, trying not to grit his teeth.

”I’m Bruce Wayne. Don’t believe a word they say about me in the press.”

Kent smiles.

*

When he was a child, his mother had taken him to the zoo. He must have been around seven, because he remembers that long-lost innocent glee and wonder, as he held on to his mother’s hand and resisted the urge to spook the colourful birds (she had told him to be good, you see).

But his strongest memory of that day is not of elephants, or panda bears. The sun was setting when they got to the cage of the Bengal tiger. There was a small crowd in front of it; a bunch of teenagers were leaning over the railing and throwing stones between the bars, trying to rile up the beast.

Martha tutted in disapproval. Bruce remembers the affronted look in her eyes, just before the purest, basest fear changed them into stone – the fight-or-flight response of any living organism, when faced with a threat. A terrifying sound startled the both of them: a roar, loud enough for Bruce to feel it reverberating in his chest. The tiger, sick of being prodded, had thrown itself at the bars.

The claws missed the reckless kids by centimeters. Martha tried to drag Bruce away, whispering reassurances, but Bruce could not help but stare, frozen in place, at the beast thrashing and roaring against its prison.

Decades later, that sound did not even make it to the top ten scariest sounds Bruce had ever heard. But the image. The image followed him, because once, in the barely lit corridors of Arkham, Batman had watched as the Joker roared his laughter against the glass wall of his cage, and saw a beast struggling to get out.

But at that moment, he wasn’t frozen into place, filled with morbid fascination, knowing that he was protected – that he would not be hurt as long as mother was there. No, he had wanted to roar back.

*

He feels claustrophobic. He tells himself that it would be sheer stupidity to throw away an opportunity like this, an opportunity to _investigate._

”Pick a side,” Bruce throws out, as he hangs his suits inside the closet. Fiddles with the hems longer than necessary. His back is turned, but he can hear the small, mundane sounds of Kent unpacking.

”Sorry?”

He finally turns and faces Kent (Superman?), gesturing vaguely towards the bed.

”Which side of the bed do you want to sleep on?”, he elaborates, a hint of teasing in his voice.

Kent seems to disregard it completely.

”I’ll take the right side, if that’s alright. I like the sun,” he offers, with a small smile.

Bruce chuckles. Wasn’t that ironic as hell.

”I can hardly say the same. The sun isn’t very friendly towards hangovers, so the left suits me just fine.”

Kent eyes him across the bed, a mix of amusement and idle curiosity glinting in his eyes.

”Planning on having a lot of those, then?” he asks conversationally, as he slides his empty luggage bag under the bed.

Bruce asks himself for a stupid second if Superman could even get drunk. He’d probably have to test that.

”When you get to be my age, son, it’s all about going out with a bang,” he grins wolfishly. ”Life’s short – you’ve got to make the most of it.”

”And making the most of life is... drinking?”, Kent asks with a slight pause, unable to steer all of the disapprovement out of his voice.

 _Oh._ So having a statue made after him wasn’t enough, he was also claiming the moral high-ground. He seemed to have had thoroughly forgotten it when he nearly demolished half a city, instead of keeping his war into space.

”For some of us it’s drinking, for others it’s judging other people for drinking. But hey, who am I to judge,” he answers lightheartedly, shrugging as he strolls towards the mirror, where he adjusts his tie in concentration.

He sees Kent’s surprised expression behind his shoulder, sees him open his mouth.

”See you at the gala,” Bruce says before opening the door and entering the darkness of the hallway, where he takes a long breath.

He yearns for Gotham’s noises, the city buzzing with skirming life underneath a gargoyle, as the wind threatens to overpower him.

*

Slipping into the Bruce Wayne persona had become easier and easier over the years. At first, it had felt like an ill-fitted clown mask, a suit stitched together from scratches. He never really did get rid of the anger at the back of his head, when people assumed him stupid, blind enough to oversee even the most obvious of schemes.

However, not even the media expected a man past his forties, after a lifetime of extravagant parties and ski accidents, to be as active as he used to be. Especially not after Jason.

He forces himself to erase that thought from his head. _Don’t grind your teeth. Don’t grip the glass too hard. Smile._

He distracts himself by sending Alfred a small text, telling him to take control of the Batsub and return it to Gotham. He almost regrets not being in it; but good things came to those who waited.

He scans the crowd periodically for Kent (Clark? Superman?), in-between glasses of champagne, but the reporter is nowhere to be seen. Relying on intuition, he quickly excuses himself, whips out his phone and searches the latest news; and _of course_. There are a dozen of videos of Superman by now, posted barely minutes apart.  He’s flying out of a building wrecked by flames, cape mysteriously untouched, delivering one civilian at a time in the arms of awestruck firemen.

Bruce can’t help the heady rush of anger at the sight of the besotted idiots in the background; they were looking at the alien almost... hungrily, as if they wanted to absorb every little detail of him. They were gazing at Superman with the feverish look of religion, glassy eyes and hands twitching to worship.

When Bruce returns to the party, he’s ten times as talkative, ten times as charming and lively. He knows his eyes are empty, but no one has ever taken that as a sign of pretense. Rather, it made him look even more superficial and vacant. After a while, he’s had enough to drink, just enough that he’ll sleep soundlessly, dreamlessly. He slips into his (their) room at almost 4 AM, and finds it empty.

As he occupies the left side of the bed, he wonders idly how many disasters Superman averted at night. How many people did he save? Was he keeping count? Did he think that the lives saved somehow made up for the lives lost?

The thought flutters behind his eyelids, before darkness takes him. _Do I?_


	2. reveal

He wakes with a gasp, clutching at the sheets. His heart is beating wildly, threatening to leave his chest (Alfred keeps warning him, age catching up). Beads of sweat are rolling down his brow.

Letting his head fall hard against the bed frame, he swallows against the bile rising in his throat. Forces the image of pearls back in the recesses of his mind. Clearly, he did not drink enough.

”Are you okay?”, a voice suddenly rings out, and to his embarassment, Bruce startles.

The alien had just come out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in hand. He must have heard him wake.

”I’m fine”, he reacts without thinking, his voice too harsh and too hoarse.

He clears his throat, shuffles the covers.

”Must have been a bad dream. I hope I didn’t disturb you”, he says as he plants his feet on the floor.

Kent shakes his head, returns to the bathroom.

”It’s not a problem. We all get those once in a while,” he replies, a somewhat sad undertone to his words.

Bruce is still processing the sheer... oddity of seeing _Superman_ with a toothbrush in his mouth. Now that he’s gotten his wits about him, he can faintly smell the smoke of last night’s fire. He thinks back to the footage he had seen, of the regal saviour with the flowing red cape, floating in the air.

He wonders what dreams plague the most powerful man in the world.

*

Clark is _bored._

Lois had downright thrown him under the bus, when she suggested to Perry that Clark should be covering the Bermuda cruise. Since so many celebrities were on it, the newspaper couldn’t afford to lose sight of it.

”Jeez, Kent, a lot of people in this office would kill to be in your place”, Perry had said after his usual tirade. ”Lighten up, look alive! If we’re lucky, half of them will go missing. I can even see the headline...”

And Lois. She thought he could use a break, a getaway, a means to connect with people.

This wasn’t what he called a getaway. He thinks back to the peaceful silence of his Fortress, the blinding ice, the hologram of his – father.

”The opening gala last night managed to gather even more than we expected! That goes to show how not only are our guests’ pockets big, but also their hearts. So we thank you all, and we hope you’ll be having a good time today as well!” the host finally finished their speech, enjoying the laughs he had provoked in his audience.

Clark thought about how rarely the money donated to charity actually ended up being used towards those means. Thinks of how often children in Africa continued to starve, and how often people like those around him spent more money on a pair of shoes than the entire worth of his salary for a year.

He fights the urge to grimace. The world needed fixing, he knew that. But some things... just could not be fought with inhuman strength, or invulnerability, or the power to shoot fire through your eyes.

He tries to forgo that train of thought, and focuses his attention on the people he needed to interview today. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to go through the trouble of seeking out sources, since he can hear everything that happens on the ship. But he needs actual, real life interviews.

So he spends his day chasing down the CEO of a huge oil company, the new editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine, and an award-winning screenwriter. He’s cheating, and he knows he’ll regret it. He’s saving the models, the actors, the football players and the singers for last, so the last days of the cruise would probably be... unpleasant.

As he thanks Hank Silvius for his time, he thinks about where Bruce Wayne fits in.

He remembers Lois’ incredulous laugh. He had told her on the phone that there had been a mix-up, that he had ended up sharing his room with a guy called Bruce Wayne. Her reaction had been... well, immediate. After describing the apparently infamous billionare, she still could not believe he didn’t know about _Bruce freaking Wayne_.

Clark had googled him afterwards. _Don’t believe everything they say about me in the press_. That had not been even half a joke as Clark had initially thought.

He wonders what about the man rubs him the wrong way. The carelessness, the attitude, the arrogance, that _smirk?_ Clark adjusts his glasses, and opens the door to room 52. It had been locked, so Wayne hadn’t come back yet.

He leaves his notes and his laptop on the table, sits down, and _listens._ Listens as far as he can, listens for the slightest sound of distress. He both hates and loves the feeling that fills him when he does this; as if he’s bigger than the world, bigger than life. As if he’s becoming one with the millions of voices he hears.

He ends up stopping two robberies on his way to a flooding in Nicaragua. They shoot at him blindly, desperately. He just approaches them calmly, closer and closer, snatching the guns from their hands and crumpling them to the ground. The metal bat one of the thugs tries to hit him with breaks on his head.

Natural disasters, those he could understand. They did not think, did not empathize – they just happened. Saving people from earthquakes, tornados, fires or floods... that was not so bad. But saving people from other people always left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, one that he did not like dwelling upon.

He must have been out longer than he thought. He hears Wayne’s heartbeat inside the room, before he twists the key.

Wayne lifts his eyes from his laptop with a smirk and the spark of recognition.

”And you were scrunching up your nose about _my_ habits. What’s keeping you out so late?” he asks with a teasing lilt to his voice, but to Clark’s ears it still sounds scratched raw.

He can’t shake off the memory of the way the billionaire had looked that morning, right before his whole demeanor _changed_ as if his face had been replaced by another. So tired, world-weary. Haunted by ghosts that were sucking him dry.

”I’m afraid it’s nothing as grand as you’d like to hear”, he replies as he takes off his glasses and puts them atop the nightstand. ”Just following up on some sources.”

But Wayne – Clark couldn’t call him Bruce, even though he had been allowed to – had already stopped paying attention, suddenly absorbed by the screen of his laptop again. Clark felt a twinge of annoyance.

Only two days had passed, he reasoned with himself as he finished his shower and toweled himself dry. Wayne had not been at all unreasonable, just... snarky. He didn’t seem quite like the man the internet painted him to be.

When he gets out of the bathroom, Wayne had already gone to sleep. His breathing was still shallow, so he was probably still awake. Clark thinks back to the _Personal life_ section of the Bruce Wayne Wikipedia page; at the way Bruce Wayne had been orphaned, how his first adoptive son left him and how his second died.

He lays down gingerly, closes his eyes and swallows the pity that floods his chest, when he remembers Wayne’s forlorn expression.

*

When he wakes, he realizes two things: one, Wayne was a blanket-hogger. Two, Wayne had almost thrown him off the bed.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, searches for a reaction – because what do you _do_ when your entirely impromptu bedmate starts shouting and thrashing at 5 in the morning, clearly in the middle of a nightmare?

”Bruce,” Clark tries first. ”Mr. Wayne, wake up!”

That doesn’t seem the phase the sleeping man in the slightest. His breathing is getting worse, as if he’s choking – Clark thinks to himself, _no wonder his voice sounds like he’s screaming himself hoarse on a daily basis._

He kneels next to the other man, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

”Wake–”

But he never gets the time to finish his sentence. He barely even has time to react; dumbfounded, he remarks that he’s never seen a human move so fast in his entire life. Because Bruce Wayne had just hit him so hard he flew off the bed.

He hears the sickening crack of a broken hand right before he lands on the floor. He registers the sharp hiss of pain, the swear. He feels the panic.

”Jesus _Christ!_ What the hell are you made of, steel?” Wayne growls out, cradling his wrist.

The irony, Clark thinks with startling clarity. Maybe Wayne will just think he’s freakishly strong. There was no direct connection between this and the fact that he was...

”You...?” Wayne’s eyes are wide.

”I’m so sorry about that,” Clark says frantically as he approaches the other man, still hoping. ”I had to wake you up, I had no idea you’d–”

Wayne just snatches off his glasses, as lightning fast as his punch had been. Clark instantly shuts up.

Wayne stares at him without a word for a couple of long, torturous seconds. He seems to have forgotten his broken wrist completely. There’s understanding dawning in his eyes.

Clark braces himself. For what, he truly doesn’t _know._ Besides Lois, his father and his mother, he had never... had anyone know before.

Wayne just hands him back his glasses. Gets up, heads to the bathroom.

”You’re going to have to help me come up with a convincing story for this,” he says drily, and Clark hears him rummaging through the cabinet.

Clark is still frozen to the spot.

”Are you going to stand there all night? Clearly, the _super_ part of your alter ego doesn’t apply to your processing skills,” Wayne continues easily, as if he hasn’t just broken his wrist while punching a guy in the face.

A sinking feeling in his gut. What did one do in such a situation? All the possible courses of action Wayne could choose flash through his mind, and the worst ones stay with him: his mother hounded by reporters, she and Lois both targeted by all the people who hated him.

Wayne returns with a splint. Clark has to wonder; based on how quickly and easily he took care of it with only one hand, he must have done this before. Still, he’d have to get his wrist set in the morning. Wayne stops in the doorway, and his dark eyes hold nothing as they pin Clark down. There’s a coiled grace about the way he leans back, as if he’s ready for anything.

Wayne – _Bruce –_ doesn’t seem excited, shocked or phased at all. He hadn’t flailed in amazement, neither recoiled in fear. Clark thinks, _he just seems about to punch me a second time._

Something in the air shifts, even though Clark has said nothing; he knows what his decision is, has known from the second he heard bone splinter. He has to _talk_ to Bruce, make him understand, keep him quiet. He knows that every second he doesn’t deny it, it becomes worse.

”What do you–”

”Please don’t,” Bruce shakes his head. ”I’m already feeling like an absolute idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

He chuckles, a throaty sound tinged with pain.

”A pair of _glasses._ Fucking unbelievable. _”_

”It’s... it’s not,” Clark hears himself say with a frown. ”It just... hasn’t crossed anyone’s mind that I’d be living a normal life, too. So they don’t go looking.”

”Hiding in plain sight.”

Bruce huffs, then turns around and makes a bottle of whiskey materialize out of a the mini-bar. Pours himself a glass, gestures towards Clark questioningly.

”Want one?”

Clark blinks at him, still unattuned to the strange normalcy of it all.

”No, thanks. It doesn’t really... do anything,” he confesses with the ghost of a self-deprecating smile, but he approaches the other man nonetheless.

”Hm. Isn’t that a shame,” Bruce says as he downs his drink.

*

Bruce expertly avoids Kent the following day. He keeps himself busy by keeping a group of young models busy. He explains the cast rather easily – or, he doesn’t. He tells everyone, with a laugh, that he got so drunk he doesn’t even _remember_ how he had broken his wrist.

Yes, he knows he could’ve let it go. Figuring it out actually was a bit counterproductive, since it proved that Bruce Wayne was not half as dumb as he tried to appear. The desperate hope in Kent’s eyes, the magnitude of his fear – he could’ve stupidly pretended that breaking your hand while punching people was an entirely normal thing to happen, even though it had felt like punching a brick wall. Kent had seemed wildly hopeful enough to believe it.

In truth, Bruce hadn’t planned on _punching_ a superpowered alien. Not that he hadn’t _wanted_ to punch Superman since the moment he saw him ricochet through buildings, destroying everything in his path. But his instincts had taken over. He had dreamed that he was being swallowed by the Bat again, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t breathe. The darkness devoured him.

Punching Kent had been entirely an instinct upon waking. What came after, however, was not. He couldn’t resist; what _would_ Superman do when his identity would prove to have been revealed? How would he react?

Bruce knew pressure points that disrupted the transfer to long term memory. He doubted that Clark Kent did. Kent’s reaction to something like this revelead so much about the man himself, but more importantly, it revealed what his public persona meant to him. It told Bruce whether or not _Clark Kent_ mattered.

And oh, he did. He twirls his glass and remembers Kent’s lost, apologetic, frantic expression. A part of him had expected... violence. Threats. God knows that Superman had all the power to see them through. No man would have dared to cross him. But Kent had been caught unawares; he was clearly someone who didn’t plan ahead. He had been... _panicked._

Bruce realizes he must be the first person to find out about his secret identity on his own. He finds it a dire lack of judgement to not account for a contingency like this, especially if you were Superman. A voice at the back of his head (strangely reminiscent of Alfred) reminds him, _he’s still young, still reckless._ He ignores it.

But instinct working for him, and not against him for once... that was a first. Ironically, punching Superman had been just what he needed. Granted, he had first intended to _accidentaly_ hit Kent with a crowbar – or anything metal, really – so that his alien nature would be even clearer. He didn’t particularly like pretending, but the image of his Wayne persona babbling stupidly while gesturing with a crowbar in the shape of Clark Kent’s profile had actually amused him.

He had realized that living with Clark Kent could only provide him information about _Clark Kent._ And who was he? If the reporter was just a mask (and even though all masks were self-portraits), information about Superman could only leak through the cracks. So he had to create an opportunity, a way to remove the obstacle of Kent out of the way.

He has a feeling that’s not at all what he did. It occurs to him that, for Superman, Clark Kent might not _be_ a mask. Unlike how Bruce Wayne was for Batman. The thought left him strangely bitter.


	3. humanity?

He had liked to read Greek mythology, as a kid. They were a lot more entertaining than regular fairytales, about dragons and miraculous rescues. The legends had diverse outcomes, they featured people with their good and their bad. The Gods were nothing more than a reflection of humanity itself.

Even though he had liked most of them, before Martha... before she was gone, he had loved to hear her read about Ullyses, the Cunning. His adventures, during those long ten years after the Trojan War, left him in awe of the hero’s mind, of his tricks and his sharp wit.

Yet, although he seemed to be a man governed by reason, a man so brilliant as to escape the wrath of Cyclops and ensnare the heart of witches, a man so charming as to enter the graces of the Gods... Bruce had been fascinated by his cruelty. He had learned of it later, when he had looked for _The Odyssey_ himself, since his mother never mentioned it; she only spoke of Ullyses’ victory against the suitors and the way he passed the test of Penelope, finally being welcomed back into his home after twenty years of absence.

But Ullyses had slaughtered the others. He had killed all of his competitors, mercilessly; and that was that, it could be very well argued that they had threatened and pressured his wife for months on an end, so he had a right to be murderously angry. But Ullyses hadn’t stopped there.

He had ordered the women who had slept with the suitors to clean up their corpses, and then had them hanged.

Bruce had always wondered, _what point did that serve?_ Why would such an intelligent man, a man who had honed his mind into a weapon, fall prey to sheer bestiality? Were the times he lived in a valid excuse? What was it... that turned good men, cruel?

Why did innocents have to die?

*

He walks back to their room with renewed conviction. Achilles had his heel, Herakles had been blindsided by love; all living things had their weaknesses.

He stops in his tracks when he hears Kent talking.

”No, Lo, he’s been... strangely civil. I... wait. I have to go, he’s here.”

A pause. Bruce frowns, opens the door.

”I love you too,” he walks in just in time to see the lazy, affectionate smile on the reporter’s face. ”Good night.”

Bruce stares at him.

”How did you know I was here?”

Kent seems a bit taken aback, as if he was surprised Bruce had heard him.

”I, ah... I could hear your heartbeat.”

Bruce bites back the _of course you did._

”That must come in handy,” he says instead, loosening his tie.

He removes it completely, hangs it in the closet. It’s hard to do things with only one hand, but he’s done it before. What irks him is that being Batman will definitely be... difficult, for at least two weeks. Not to mention what a joy showering was announcing itself to be.

Kent tilts his head in acquiescence, with a small smile.

”It’s not bad.”

_I bet,_ Bruce thinks as he occupies the bathroom, changing into his pijamas. Superhearing. He wonders, again, what it was _like._

”So,” he drops casually when he returns, choosing not to open his laptop and check on his readings from the Cave. ”What else can you do, besides flying, shooting lasers out of your eyes, punching really hard, and being the world’s best eavesdropper? I’m sure there’s _something_ you can’t do, if we look hard enough.”

That rips a chuckle out of Kent. He seems just as surprised as Bruce.

”That’s about it, actually.”

Slight pause, a second’s hesitation.

”But you know, I’d love being able to read people’s minds.”

Bruce thanks whatever deity is out there that he can’t. If he could, he would have been out of the game from the start. He pours himself a glass of wine (he had finished the whisky).

”Why?”, he asks, and realizes he is genuinely curious.

Clark has that... tight-lipped ghost of a smile again, slightly sad.

”It would be easier to understand. To know if I can be what they need.”

Bruce feels strangely disarmed by that answer; so Superman did have doubts, Superman did wonder. Superman knew... his effect on the world, knew he had changed things irremediably. But he didn’t understand it.

Bruce has no idea what to think of that. Drinks his wine in large sips, gives himself time to think. He ends up being honest.

”I doubt you’d love it,” he replies. ”You wouldn’t be able to limit yourself to just what you want to see. You’d see it all – the good, the bad, the ugly.”

He huffs, mostly for himself, as he pours a second glass.

”Especially the ugly,” he mutters.

”You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of your fellow man,” Clark muses.

”I found that the best policy is avoid _having_ an opinion,” Bruce smiles a bit bitterly. ”Maybe it’s just the... Gotham city in me. We’re not really known to be optimists.”

He decides against putting the bottle back in the cabinet, and just takes it with him to bed. He’ll need a lot more to sleep without nightmares, tonight. He forgave himself for last night, for having someone else than Alfred see him like that, because it ended up in his favour.

But he could not allow it to happen again.

Clark eyes the bottle suspiciously, but visibly decides against saying anything about it. There’s a conundrum behind the blue of his eyes, a debate.

”What will you do?” he asks, suddenly.

Bruce plays dumb.

”What do you mean?”

”Will you tell anyone? That I’m... Superman,” Clark says gravely, pinning him down with a serious gaze.

The slight hesitation tells Bruce that he hadn’t said that out loud before. It was a legitimate question, one that he should’ve asked sooner.

Clark? When had he started thinking of the alien as Clark?

”I don’t see any point in that,” he answers, strangely truthful again, at his third glass of wine.

He sees Kent (Clark?) deflate with relief.

”I’m keeping this little gem for harsher times,” he can’t resist the sudden impulse to tease. ”You know, when I go bankrupt and announce a price of 100 million dollars for the identity of Superman.”

Clark’s reaction is worth it. He frowns, opens his mouth, pauses. Bruce practically sees the moment he realizes that it was a joke.

His face is unfairly easy to read.

”I... don’t think anyone would pay that much,” he reasons.

Bruce just sighs, shaking his head. Pours the fourth glass.

*

Clark can’t sleep. His mind feels too awake, too filled with thoughts.

Bruce had gone to bed, sometime after his sixth glass. Clark had wondered if he was an alcoholic, but resisted the urge to ask, to prod. He got the feeling Bruce would just fold in on himself, answer with a clever joke.

It had been strange, talking about... Superman with someone else, someone new. Bruce had raised a valid point, although he didn’t want to believe he was right. Maybe it was for the best that he couldn’t know what people were thinking.

He hadn’t asked Bruce yet, but he had wanted to. What did _he_ think? By now, Clark was sure there was much more to the man than the newspapers or the internet claimed there was – nothing, that is.

He hadn’t been able to help it; he had listened for Bruce’s voice, that day, while sipping his cocktail and making nice with a very hungover heiress. At first, it had been purely to know if Bruce would tell anyone. After a while, though, he just became... incredulous.

He found it harder and harder to reconcile the man he had seen last night, with the superficial, careless man making such bad jokes and missing no chance to hit on any woman in his vicinity. At one point, when he heard one of the models call him _Brucie,_ he almost cringed.

But Bruce had just carried on. That sharp wit Clark had had a taste of was being immensely dumbed down. Something... was not right. He turns around slowly, gazing at the back of the other man’s head. The bed was large enough for them not to touch, and by tacit agreement they slept with their backs facing the other. Bruce’s heartbeat is steady, his breathing regular.

He returns to staring at the door, resumes his train of thought. Then again, there were the nightmares. Were they even nightmares? Taking into account last night’s ordeal, they almost seemed like night terrors. What was he even dreaming about? Not to mention, what sort of reaction was that, to immediately attack someone upon waking? And that speed, that accuracy, implied a substantial amount of training.

Besides, tonight’s conversation had only furthered his suspicions. Bruce Wayne was deliberately letting everyone think him far less than he was. Rather, he seemed to encourage it. Did he just not care? Why would someone want to have the public image Bruce Wayne had... if not to hide something?

Clark abstains from calling it a mask, a double life, or anything even remotely as ridiculous. He has learned to be cautious. But this was something worth investigating.

After all, he was a reporter.

*

Clark wakes up with the nagging feeling he forgot something. Bruce is still asleep, wrapped in the covers up to his nose. If Clark could feel cold, he knows he’d be missing the warmth of the them; but it’s... amusing. If there is one thing Clark knows to be true about Bruce Wayne, at least he knows that he’s a shameless blanket-hogger.

He rises slowly, decides on impulse. They were supposed to be docking today at 8 AM, at the Royal Naval Dockyard of Bermuda. But – there was time. It was only 7 o’clock.

He changes into his suit and launches off the deck, at superspeed, careful not to be seen. But when the winds start howling in his ears, he smiles, unrestrained. He would never get enough of flying.

The world becomes smaller, and smaller, and smaller, until it’s only a blue planet, half enshrined in darkness. The sunlight is pumping energy into his veins. But what he loves most is the way that he can open his senses... and listen. Humanity was so very loud, open, honest – when it didn’t know someone was listening.

He makes a beeline for Ecuador. Another earthquake. He had started to develop a routine, based on what he was saving people from. As in everything else, the people are the priority; and in this particular case, they had to be carried to safe ground.

He stops a prison escape and interrupts one beating and a shoot-out between rival gangs, on his way to Metropolis. The city is quite peaceful, as always prone to direct, clean acts: there’s a robbery, but that’s quickly taken care of.

He hears it just before taking off. The muffled, desperate, soul-shattering screams, a couple of blocks away from the bank. He zeroes in on the location: a basement.

He breaks the door as he goes in. Uses his x-ray vision to look for an assailant, but finds none. There’s a woman, clothes torn, tied up, struggling and screaming. Her face is wet with tears. She keeps trying to get away – from the corpses on the ground, three dead women. The open eyes are staring emptily at the ceiling.

Clark takes in the missing nails, the bruises, the cuts, the guts spilling on the floor. A day ago, these women were still alive. He feels numb, as he rips the chords the woman was tied with, as he holds her shaking body. One of the corpses is missing part of its cheek, revealing the teeth underneath. They’re all naked, and Clark can’t even... pinpoint where the dried blood comes from anymore, there’s too much of it.

He hears it; another heartbeat. Heavy, hurried steps, and then he appears, a man so average and so normal, by anyone’s standards. Not too fat, not too skinny. Glasses. Tweed jacket.

”No no no no...” he mutters with eyes wide as saucers. He starts screaming. ”She’s mine, you hear! You can’t just take her away! I found her first!”

The words die in his throat. Clark had seized his neck in a vice-like grip, floating above ground, letting the monster's hands claw at his arm. A cold sort of anger was dousing him in ice; it took all he had not to fry two holes through the man’s head. _He deserved to die._ He deserved something worse than death.

_But I can’t be the one to decide that._ It flashes behind his eyelids, the image that haunted his nightmares: Zod’s shocked features, his empty eyes, the sickening sound of his neck snapping. Clark lets go.

He knocks the lunatic unconscious, and takes the victim to the nearest hospital. He leaves the man back there, next to the girls he’d murdered, calls 911 to that address. He disappears into the clouds, feeling close to vomiting.

He feels like tearing apart the cruise ship when he lands on top of it, tearing apart everything he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeez, I had to cut out on gory details towards the end of the chapter, reminding myself of the rating on this thing. I hope it's okay. once a Hannibal fan, always a Hannibal fan, it seems.   
> thank you so much for the response so far! I hope you'll like what comes next, too. remember: when you comment, a newborn puppy is brought into the world.


	4. quid pro quo

Bruce thinks that he’s allowed, after all the socializing he’s done, to wait patiently in his room until disembarking starts. They had already docked, but for the passengers’ safety, exiting the cruise ship was allowed only after 2 hours. He dreaded the entire day to come, but mostly, he dreaded the beach.

He hadn’t _liked_ the idea of having Dick come over from Bludhaven, but he had approved of Alfred calling him over, when it became evident Bruce wouldn’t be returning very soon. Their relationship was still strained. It hadn’t been stellar for a while, but since Jason was gone...

The door flies open, and Clark comes in. Bruce is grateful for the distraction. He opens his mouth to say something, but he stops; there’s something off about the stiffness in Clark’s shoulders, his blank features.

”Morning,” Bruce eventually says, questioning, after the reporter just heads towards the table and starts looking through his bag.

Clark pauses for a second, finally lifts his eyes. He looks like he didn’t even notice Bruce was there. ”Good morning.”

He finally fishes out the object he was after – his phone. He’s nearly out the door again before he stops in his tracks.

”I’m sorry, I really need to make a phone-call,” he excuses himself before disappearing again.

Bruce stares after him a good few seconds. What had gotten _him_ so roughed up? Could it have been work? Why would he be so desperate to get to his phone? It wasn’t like Bruce wouldn’t be able to find out later; he had cloned Clark’s phone since day one. But he couldn’t listen to the recordings, since... well, superhearing.

He returns to his laptop, reviewing the last case Alfred had sent him. Tries to shake off the feeling that if he had _been there_ to collect the evidence, question the smugglers himself, he’d already know who lead the ring.

No. Dick was more than capable, he shouldn’t be doubting him.

Shaking off that train of thought, he checks to see who Clark was so desperate to call. Unsurprisingly, the screen reads _Lois Lane._ It was most likely some sort of emotional issue, Bruce ponders.

The door flies open again; caught up in his thoughts, Bruce hadn’t realized that half an hour had passed. The reporter looks better, more like himself, but his jaw is still clenched. Bruce frowns.

His physical profile on Superman so far was murky, but vastly improved. He had managed to put together a rough description of Superman’s powers; however, he also had the advantage of knowing that the government was pouring millions of dollars into the study of the Kryptonian ship, and of the dead Kryptonian. Sooner or later, something had to give.

He had hacked their servers long ago. Their team of experts seemed to be onto something, but they hadn’t managed to take apart the engine of the ship yet. It was only a matter of time. If Bruce knows one thing to be true, it’s that everything in this world is vulnerable.

His psychological profile on Superman... now that was even murkier. He looks up at the other man, sees the weight pressing on his shoulders. Clark Kent was raised by humans, but had all the powers of a god. And gods only ever reflected the worst of humanity, or its most fervent hopes and wishes. Superman, right now, was a canvas upon which people projected both.

Could Clark Kent take it? He hadn’t thought of it this way before. Rather, he was sure he _couldn’t_ ; that he’d go power-hungry, mad, and that the world needed to be protected from that. The threat had to be nipped in the bud.

He _knows_ all this. But he still asks. Nearly cringes at the hesitance in his own voice.

”Are you okay?”

Clark stops staring blankly into his notes. Focuses his eyes on him, and Bruce is taken aback by the exhaustion behind them. The existential sort, the one that poisoned your bones. But nonetheless, Clark tries to smile. Releases a shaky breath.

”Yeah, I’ll – I’ll be fine,” he answers after a few seconds.

Bruce opens his mouth to ask what happened, but that annoying signal interrupts him: they had to exit the ship. Clark jumps at the opportunity, shoves his notes, his recorder and his laptop into the bag, and bolts towards the door.

Bruce sighs. Today was going to be a long day.

*

Out of all the shore activities he could’ve chosen, Bruce goes for the one he knows is expected of him. In truth, he would have enjoyed diving. But he ends up on a glass-bottom boat cruise, with a bunch of women younger than him by at least 10 years.

He has to make even more of an effort than usual to keep up the pretense, since the bottom of the ocean is entirely captivating. He hadn’t seen the Shipwreck of the Vixen before; the clear blue of the water, the fast movement of the colorful fish, is mesmerizing. Everyone around him had gone quiet.

”Do you believe there is a God?” one of the brunettes whispers into his ear.

Bruce had not expected that. He turns around sharply, half-expecting it to be a seduction attempt, but Victoria’s eyes were still absorbed by the sight of the bottom of the sea.

”Where did that come from?” he asks teasingly.

”Just...” she trails off. She’s a young reporter, he thinks. Worked for a news channel in Gotham. ”How could all of _this_ happen by chance?”

He knows she means the sheer beauty around them, the way nature conspired to create a near paradise; all the living and breathing proofs of intelligent design.

He does believe there is a God, actually. But not the God that created Man. He believed in the God that Man had created. And it wasn’t an entity of its own; rather, it resembled a Tulpa. The Tibetans thought that, if channeled into the right sigil, people’s beliefs could actually bring about the existence of a spirit. God was much like that. He was modeled by His believers; his existence, his influence, depended on them alone.

Maybe that’s why he felt that Superman needed to be taken out – and if not taken out, he needed to be _humbled._ Each day, more news appeared of religions claiming him as their Savior, of people signing petitions to have statues of him built up, of riots breaking out between Superman supporters and the ones who believed that Superman should leave; the world needed to stop deifying him. Before Clark himself believed it.

”I don’t know, Vicki,” he says, airily. ”But I’d like to know.”

The question follows him, thorought the day. They dine in the city; he manages to talk business with the shady CEO of an oil company he had been keeping track of. He doesn’t like Hank Silvius shark-like smile.

While he shakes the man’s hand, he spots Clark, smiling while chatting away with one of the other reporters. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes at all.

Oh, fuck it.

”Mr. Kent!”, he grins widely, grabbing the other man by the arm. ”How lovely to see you here. How are you finding Bermuda?”

The woman Clark had been conversing with remains comically frozen. Before the stunned Clark can form a response, she pokes at the reporter’s chest with one accusing finger.

”You know _Bruce Wayne?_ ”

”I think that might be too strong of a word,” Clark just laughs. ”It’s funny, actually. We just happened to–”

Without thinking, Bruce elbows him in the ribs. Swears under his breath when it feels like literally shoving your elbow into a wall of cement. Clark sputters.

”–share the same cab on our way to the Norwegian Breakaway,” he finishes Clark’s sentence. ”We immediately hit it off!”

Bruce can practically feel Clark’s eyes burning holes into the side of his head. Not literal holes, thankfully. Didn’t Clark realize what a hassle it would have been if their situation became public knowledge?

”That’s great!”, the woman squeals. ”I’m Anna, I met Clark on my first day here, too!”

”It’s great to meet you. Isn’t he a delight?” Bruce says conspiratorially, leaning in, pointedly ignoring the other man.

He doesn’t know _exactly_ why he’s doing this, but to be fair, not much about his reaction to Clark, or Superman, has been predictable so far.

”Aww, Clark, no need to blush, that’s absolutely true,” Anna gushes.

Bruce snorts so hard he successfully manages to turn it into a cough. Clark pats his back a bit _too_ hard.

*

That night, it’s Bruce’s turn to be woken up by the distressing sounds of a nightmare. 

Clark looks... helpless, when Bruce turns around to look at him, careful to keep his broken wrist out of the way. He looks desperate. He twitches and turns, fingers tearing at the sheets. He looks human. 

Bruce tries to reason with himself – Clark might hit him upon waking, too. And he wouldn’t be breaking his wrist, like Bruce; he might end up breaking Bruce’s head. And while it wasn't the best place to live in most of the time, Bruce enjoyed his head. Clark would wake up on his own, eventually.

Sighing, he still places a hand on the alien’s shoulder and simply says, ”Clark.”

Clark startles awake with a gasp, sitting up immediately. He’s breathing heavily, leaning, letting his hair cover his eyes.

”I’m sorry,” he manages to say. ”It’s... been a while.”

He lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. Bruce doesn’t know what to do with himself; he’s never been good in situations like these, emotional situations. 

”Want to talk about it?” he ends up asking, voice rough from sleep. 

Clark turns his head, eyes him warily.

”Do you?”, he asks with a bitter half-smile.

Bruce is surprised, yet again, by that; he had neglected to ask himself what Clark thought of him, too focused on figuring the other man out.

He’ll berate himself for this later, he knows it.

”I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he smirks wolfishly, shrugging slightly.

It was okay, he reasons. Everything he’d say can already be found on the internet. Clark had probably researched him already and knew all of it. This didn’t matter. Whatever bothered Superman, did.

Clark grimaces slightly at his wording, but doesn’t say anything. Studies Bruce for a couple of seconds, and Bruce feels strangely weighted.

”There was a bank robbery in Metropolis today,” Clark finally says, looking away. ”I... picked up on someone’s scream. So I followed it, and I found... three corpses and a soon-to-be one screaming like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

Bruce has a sinking feeling in his gut.

”I almost killed him,” Clark says, incredulous, voice rough yet silent and brittle. ”When he came back and started yelling at me. I almost killed him.”

Bruce thinks, _I’m the last person on Earth you should be telling that to._

”Lois said that it was normal, to get angry. But she doesn’t _understand._ It wasn’t just a passing fit of anger, it... why do people _do_ things like that?” Clark slides a hand over his face, and his voice breaks a bit.

Bruce thinks back to the mangled corpse of Jason and the echos of laughter in his ears. Remembers the names and the faces of people who died, the graveyards his continued refusal to act had filled, just because he let a madman _live._

”Pain,” he ends up saying. ”Loneliness. People do things like that because they’re missing something. It’s that simple.”

He knows that Clark didn’t understand.

”Hell, you probably know the sob story,” he spits out. ”How poor Bruce Wayne watched as his parents got gunned down in front of him. What the mugger _lacked_ was _money._ ”

He swallows, his throat constricting. Would there ever be a time when he’d be able to talk about this... without that gaping hole he called the Bat eating away at his chest?

”When my father refused to just sit there and be robbed, he got _angry._ For being denied,” Bruce carries on. ”He killed them, but he got scared – he wasn’t able to kill me. I _survived._ ”

He doesn’t say, _I survived because I got angry back. I survived because that night, something bigger than myself came to me – something bigger and stronger than anger. Something righteous._

”Your garden-variety serial killer... he was probably lacking something too,” he says instead. Licks his lips. ”Maybe he wasn’t loved as a child. Maybe his father beat him, maybe his mother was the only thing he had. Maybe he wanted to be loved, but didn’t know how to get it. Kidnapping and killing may have been his only way to connect.”

Bruce knows he’s crossed a line, ripped off a veil. His words become wearier and wearier.

”You can’t... hate them, Clark. Not _you._ You’re supposed to save them. So you have to see that they’re not to be hated – they are to be _pitied_ , and locked up, so they can’t hurt themselves or anyone else.”

The wave of self-hatred almost drowns him, and he feels like punching something to a bloody pulp. He knows, he knows all of this. He sees the way Clark’s eyes lit up, he sees how understanding spreads in the blue of his irises. He watches as the fire of anguish is slowly extinguished.

And he hates it, because he _can’t_ believe that anymore. The world had broken him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I've been a bit anxious about posting this chapter. BvS!Clark is something else, and he's quite elusive. I hope you find them both in-character. BvS!Bruce is a very interesting Bruce, a darker one we rarely see (well done, at least) in the comics. I've been wanting to explore that darkness since I saw the movie.   
>  that said, let me know your thoughts in a comment. and thank you so much for your response on the last chapter, it warmed my hungry writer heart!


	5. prelude

Clark can’t help but gaze at the other man in surprise. He wouldn’t have expected... for something that resonated with him so well, to come out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth. A man he’d only known for four days, too.

”I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. Bruce looks taken aback. ”I’m truly sorry about your parents. No one should go through something like that.”

For some reason, Bruce turns away. Clark hears him breathe in deeply.

”Is that why you... make the most of life?” he asks without thinking, and then wishes he could take it back.

But he had been _curious._ It was now clear as day that there was a fundamental difference between who Bruce Wayne was, and who Bruce Wayne pretended to be. There had to be a reason for that... dissociation.

”You could say that,” Bruce answers, but his words are laced with bitter irony.

A moment of silence fills the room. Clark hopes he wasn’t offended.

”I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” he explains sheepishly, but Bruce just shrugs it off.

”I know. Now, if we’re done trading sob stories like a couple of teenagers having a sleepover, I’d rather go back to sleep.”

Clark just nods while Bruce lays on his good side, careful to elevate his broken wrist. The sight of it never fails to make him feel guilty. But somehow, even with one available hand, Bruce still manages to make a nest out of the covers.

Clark grasps what’s left of the blankets, and tries to sleep too. But he can't stop the thoughts swirling in his head. The nightmare flashes behind his closed eyes. In the dream, he _had_ killed that desperate monster. He remembers the crack of the man’s spine in atrocious detail.

But Bruce was right. He had never thought of it in terms of what people were lacking. At some point, people went _wrong --_ but it wasn’t just their own fault. It was never as black and white as that. It's just... that he can't help but wonder. How many silent kidnappings, how many rapes or how many frauds or how many injustices that he couldn’t _hear_ or _see_ took place, everyday, right under his nose? How many silent horrors had he missed?

Something twists in his gut. How many more? People were calling him a god, they were having religious debates over him on TV, and he hated it, because he _wasn’t._ Yes, he had a great deal of power, but he had limits.

Limits that got people killed.

*

Clark knows Bruce probably was off in a shore excursion, with the rest of the richer-than-God squad. He had opted for something less conspicuous, taking the bus. Even though he is too caught up in mulling over last night's events in his mind, he distantly notes the beauty of Bermuda. He wishes he could fly along its streets, lose himself in its sky.

That morning, Bruce had been gone. That was unusual, to say the least; once, the man had slept until 2 PM. Granted, he hadn’t been sleeping off a hangover, this time. But still, Clark gets the distinct feeling he’s being... avoided.

He had listened for Bruce’s heartbeat, while brushing his teeth; pinpointed his location to be somewhere above, alone, on deck. He wasn’t that surprised anymore. How hadn’t he managed to see before, the way Bruce Wayne oozed power? Not just in the I-own-everything-and-everyone-in-this-room way, although that was how most people interpreted it. Rather, it was complete and utter confidence – that he’d be always in control. That... meant being alone, too.

Clark wonders what that control keeps reigned in, why Bruce cultivates his image as a mindless womanizer with so much perseverence. Did he _want_ to be what he pretended to be? Did he think that was the way to forget who he really was, the dreams that haunted him at night? Did it... help, in any way?

He couldn’t stop thinking about Bruce’s words, their weight; but mostly, the exhaustion and the downright bitterness behind them. How Bruce had almost hid _,_ at some point – and he can’t help but feel _privileged_ , somehow. Maybe it was only because he was Superman. Maybe Bruce had been so honest just because of that, because he was afraid of Superman ever feeling the way he had confessed to be feeling.

For some reason, the thought irritated him.

”Hey! Fancy meeting you here,” a voice suddenly chirps in his ear.

He turns, readjusts his glasses. It was Anna, the reporter for the Gotham Gazette.

”Hi,” he says back with a half-smile.

It wasn’t such a surprise, really. This ride was what reporters could afford.

”So, I was wondering... could you do me, like, a huge favor?”, she asks with big doe eyes, as she sits down on the empty seat next to him.

Clark thinks of Lois, and all the ways she’d do this right.

”I’ll try,” he answers, although he’s ninety percent sure he knows what it is.

”Could you put it in a good word for me with Wayne, get me an exclusive with him? He’s been turning down a lot of media appearances lately, it would be great for me if I could...” she trails off, gestures suggestively. ”I mean, you guys are friends, right? It wouldn’t be a problem.”

 _Friends,_ Clark thinks blankly. They had met less than a week ago. In that short amount of time, they had managed to wake each other from nightmares, talk about deeply personal issues, and have... inside jokes. Not to mention, Bruce had broken his hand on Clark’s face.

”I wouldn’t say friends,” he reasserts with a small sigh. ”We... get along.”

Despite the animosity they had shared the first two days. Clark thinks about how the panic had been gone in the second Bruce had assured him he had no intention of revealing his secret identity to the world. Thinks about that _Are you okay?_ that had felt so hesitant.

He doesn’t regret that Bruce found out, Clark admits to himself. He only regrets that Bruce broke his wrist in the process.

”That at least sounds like the start of being friends,” Anna says hopefully. ”Maybe he’ll indulge you to make nice. Come on, please?”

”Sure, I’ll talk to him,” he tells her. ”I’ll let you know if he agrees.”

Her smile could light up a camp fire.

”Great! Thank you so much! You have no idea how much this means to me,” she squeals. ”It’s not just about the interview,” she adds quickly. ”He’s... well, hot.”

She blushes. Clark thinks of the silver in Bruce’s hair.

”Anyway, I’ll see you around! I have to get back to my friend. Thanks again!” Anna says cheerfully as she gets up, catching herself before stumbling when the bus takes an especially mean turn.

”No problem. Take care!”, he waves her off.

He misses Lois, suddenly, with the ferocity of being away from home too long.

*

Bruce would have to thank Clark, someday. Maybe get him a box of Girl Scout cookies. Since the doctor had told him to return to the medical bay to have his wrist checked, he had been busy all morning. He had been briefed that the break was healing nicely, which was good news. However, he told everyone else that the doctor had urged him to keep his hand elevated, and that he needed to stay indoors, and managed to believably get himself out of a celebrity getaway.

He stayed in their room the entirety of the afternoon. Typing was difficult with one hand only, but he was getting used to it. While Bruce was having a very long and excruciating shower, Nightwing reported that he had caught the ring leader, after Bruce sent his input. There was another case now.

He was tempted to listen to the recordings of Clark’s conversations, but he limited himself to his texting. Clark didn’t text much, that much was obvious. The only person he talked to regularly was Lois Lane.

All in all, Superman didn’t seem to have much of a personal life. He had a lot of contacts, and after following his articles for months, Bruce already knew that he was a good reporter, too. He wasn’t interested in the shallow stories, the ones that were designed to be dust in the public’s eye. He wasn’t a reporter just because it allowed him to find out about disasters quickly so he could avert them. Clark actually _cared._

Still, that care could easily be misguided. Could easily turn into something else. Bruce knows from experience: the best fall the hardest. The brightest are capable of the worst darkness.

He actively avoids thinking about it, but he had felt it. The slow decadence. He had felt himself slip, little by little, in the last few months. Even before Superman and Zodd had their superpowered brawl. He had become careless. He remembers with acute clarity the first time he hadn’t fired a grappling hook after the thug falling off the roof of a ten-stories building. Remembers the absolute _lack_ of anything he felt while the man’s screams scratched at his ears, the almost painful nothingness as the sound of a body hitting the roof of a car reached him. The sound of the ambulance.

He hadn’t pushed him. The small-time crook had been so afraid of the Bat that he had _jumped_ , rather than let himself be questioned.

Bruce dreams of him too, sometimes. It was slightly ironic. Hadn’t he wanted to become the stuff of nightmares? Now, he had become so efficient of a monster that he began haunting himself. It didn’t take a psychoanalyst to figure out the symbolism of dreaming about a huge bat devouring him.

Clark finds him staring blankly at the wall, sitting in one of the chairs; laptop forgotten, hand elevated on the table. When Bruce looks up, he finds the reporter sitting across from him, two cups of tea still steaming next to his notes.

”I don't have your number, so I had to guess,” Clark speaks, voice a bit rough and absent. ”I hope you like mint.”

Bruce reaches for the cup.

”Lucky guess,” he mutters. ”What time is it?”

”Nine-thirty. Do you want to do the interview today or tomorrow?”, Clark asks without even raising his eyes. He’s frowning while twirling a pen.

Bruce doesn’t find it surprising that his preference lies with good old-fashioned writing, rather than keyboards.

”Now, when did I agree to an interview?”, he asks teasingly as he brings the tea to his lips.

He expects an impatient huff in response, but nothing comes. When he looks back at Clark, the man seems actually... flustered, staring at him with what seemed to be disappointment.

”I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume–”

”It was a joke, Clark,” he interrupts with a near-roll of his eyes. ”Do Kryptonians genetically lack a sense of humor, or is it just you?”

Clark glares.

”My sense of humor works just fine, it’s yours that has a problem,” he almost mumbles as he also picks up his tea.

Bruce does him a favor and ignores that. Although he could have kept teasing the man to death. He probably likes drawing a reaction out of the mild-mannered, polite and nice reporter a bit too much, and berates himself for that; this was Superman, too.

”We can do it tomorrow,” Clark offers. Then frowns slightly. ”Also, remember Anna? The reporter from the other day? She asked if you’d have the time for an interview.”

Bruce stops him before he says anything else.

”Tell her that I’m deeply honored, but no thanks,” he asserts tiredly. ”I have an interview quota and you’ve just filled it.”

Clark nods his head, but a small, pleased smile plays on his lips.

”What time?” Bruce asks, finishing his tea.

”I’ll find you,” Clark promises. ”Thank you, Bruce.”

He opens his mouth to say that _something_ had to keep the media sated, but Clark keeps going.

”For everything. I don’t think I’ve told you last night, but I’m grateful you were there.”

Bruce feels like punching Clark so hard he goes hurtling through space. That... stupidly open, honest, painfully sincere expression should not _be_ on the face of the biggest threat towards the safety of the planet. But most of all – not directed at him.

Absurdly, he feels like covering his eyes in front of something too blindingly bright.

”You’re welcome,” he says too shortly, too abrupt.

Clark just gives him a small smile. Bruce wants to surround himself with Gotham, again. Wants out.


	6. if I'm not an alien and I'm not a human, who am I?

When he had been in school, before... Thomas and Martha Wayne died, young Bruce Wayne had gotten in a fight. And oh, he had won. He had managed to get back the smaller boy’s lunch money, had reveled in the admiration of the other kids, and in the gratitude of the near-victim.

His father got called by the teacher. Thomas Wayne had come to him that night, before bed, with a grim look on his face.

”Son,” he had told him. ”I heard you beat up Joey pretty badly today.”

Bruce had argued that Joey was a bully. Joey had tried to take Kyle’s lunch money. Joey deserved to be beat up. All the other kids agreed. His father had shook his head, slowly.

”At what point did you stop kicking that poor boy to help Kyle, and started kicking him because you liked it?” he asked patiently, tucking his son in. ”Violence is a poison, Bruce. An addictive one. Most of the time, if people just _talked_ to each other, I wouldn’t have so many patients to fix up.”

Bruce had felt so ashamed, then. Swore to himself to never disappoint his father again. He would apologize to Joey, he decided. But Joey had spit on the ground, had told him to shove up his apologies where the sun didn’t shine.

He had forgotten about that incident. But now, his father’s voice rang clear as a bell, on the forefront of his mind. _Violence is a poison, Bruce. An addictive one._

Maybe he was forgetting to speak a different language, other than the language of violence.

*

This night was the first night that passed without any incident. They had gone to sleep, having already established a routine in the morning; the bathroom was Clark’s first, then Bruce’s.

This time, Clark had said _good night._ After a few seconds, Bruce had said _good night_ back. Clark had half-expected Bruce to pretend to have fallen asleep; but, although slightly awkward, he had responded.

Clark avoids thinking about how last time he flew ended up like, as he dons the suit. There was always some crisis to avert, although this morning seems full of small, petty ones. No major natural disasters, which leaves him with acts of human violence.

He tries to keep Bruce’s words in mind, when he sees how the faces of perpetrators twist with hatred when they see the symbol on his chest. But this time, he sees the helplessness behind it too, the desperation _._ People always had a reason, good or bad, even though some were probably not even aware of it.

Sometimes, he thought he was doing this -- being Superman, just to... repent. Besides Zod’s, he had a different death that weighed on his conscience, another death that kept him up at night. His father, who decided he’d rather _die_ than have the world know what his son could do. His father, who thought that the world didn’t deserve Superman.

Bruce had seen his parents die, without there being anything he could do. Clark had _let_ his father die. He told himself, _I respected his choice, I loved him, that’s why..._

He tells himself, _I was just a stupid kid._

He lands a particularly vicious blow, one that leaves the thief unconscious. The man would probably have a concussion. Clark resists the urge to check on Metropolis, although Lois wasn’t there either; she was back in New York, chasing a story, waiting for his ship to come back.

Clark is back at 12 PM sharp, ready to interview Mara Stanton. She was a very good singer, and pleasant to talk to, in the end; he realizes he had made his questions for her too shallow, and makes a mental note to stop judging before having all the facts. Lois would jokingly say that, for such a nice person, he was annoyingly opinionated.

The next interview he had scheduled that day was with Bruce, in the center of Bermuda, before the cruise ship took off. He was admittedly a bit nervous. He had written up some questions for Bruce, but he had... no idea how to approach him. Would he be talking to the man he had come to get a glimpse of, or the mask? He had a bad feeling that it was the latter, since this was a public interview.

Well, he had come prepared, anyway. When he enters the restaurant, Bruce is sitting alone at a table, with a huge coffee in front of him. The view overlooks the sea; it’s breathtaking.

”Order anything you want, Kent,” Bruce gestures towards the menu when he approaches. There's a shadow of amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. ”It’s on me.”

Clark resists the urge to scoff. So it was back to Kent now?

”There’s no need, Bruce,” he replies as he occupies the seat in front of the billionaire. ”But thank you.”

He takes out his recorder and his notes out of the bag. He’s downright curious and impatient, now; will Bruce just switch off, become someone else, not acknowledge anything?

”Straight to business,” Bruce comments dryly. ”I like it.”

The ironic tilt to the rough voice nearly fools him into thinking that maybe this will be an _honest_ interview. But the second he presses the record button, someone else sits in front of him; he can practically see Bruce’s eyes go dull and the trademark smirk pull at the corner of lips.

So he goes with the second set of questions. He asks about sports ( _oh, anything, as long as it’s fun_ ), about engagement rumors _(the ladies needn’t worry, he wasn’t about to be trapped into wedlock very soon)_ , about what he does in his spare time _(not much, lately he’s been into visiting all sorts of countries)_ , about future partnerships ( _LexCorp? Who knew, he didn't handle this stuff)_ , and then he can’t take it anymore.

”How is your relationship with Richard Grayson? Rumors are he’s back in Gotham,” Clark says suddenly, and feels an unreasonable amount of satisfaction when Bruce’s jaw clenches minutely.

”We’re doing okay,” he answers easily. ”He’s visiting Alfred, picking up a few things. You know how kids are –- they get a taste of freedom, and you only ever see them for the holidays.”

Clark is ready to bet there’s much, much more to the story. But he resists poking the bear, and goes on to ask about the cruise. There’s something lurking behind Bruce’s dark eyes, though, something guarded.

”You know, I’ve always wondered,” he says airily after Clark is done with that line of questioning. ”How does it feel like? _Flying?_ ”

Clark nearly chokes on his drink. Sees the spark of satisfaction he had earlier reflected back at him.

”It’s... amazing,” he can’t help but answer, although he now has to delete the recording. He can’t help but smile, in recollection. ”It’s really amazing. Took me a while, though.”

”What, you mean to tell me you weren’t a flying, superpowered good Samaritan from the crib?” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

”I got them gradually, as I grew up,” Clark explains.

And what a hassle it had been. He wasn’t able to control them at first. He had nearly set fire to the farm so many times.

”Every day must have felt like Christmas,” Bruce says with an amused smirk. A real one.

Clark lets out a short laugh.

”Not by a longshot,” he answers. ”It was like opening your gift and getting a wild tiger. You had no idea how to control the damn thing.”

Bruce watches him carefully.

”That probably wasn’t easy,” he muses.

”I had my parents to help me through it,” Clark says truthfully. ”I wouldn’t have made it without them.”

Bruce’s gaze loses focus. He looks away, a tiny flicker of his eyes. Clark realizes his mistake with a start, but before he can open his mouth to apologize, Bruce speaks as if nothing happened.

”You’re a lucky bastard, remember that.”

And Clark remembers his father’s peaceful, resigned face, right before the storm took him. As if he had always known this was to be his end. Jonathan Kent wouldn’t have died if Clark had been... normal. But he was dead, superpowered son or not.

He swallows.

”Now, do you have any more dumb questions to throw at me?” Bruce thankfully continues, distracting him from his thoughts.

Grateful for the distraction, Clark skims through his notes. He had covered most of them.

”No, I think we’re done for today.”

There’s something hungry in Bruce’s eyes; curiosity, but something else, something wolfish.

”Then I’ll be asking the questions,” he affirms with absolute confidence. ”I just have to know: how the hell do you shave? If I broke my hand hitting you, I can’t imagine what would happen to the poor razor.”

”Heat vision,” Clark answers, amused, placated. ”In the mirror,” he further explains.

Bruce’s incredulous look is absolutely worth it.

*

When they get back to the ship, Bruce is whisked away to play some poker. However, he’s having a hard time concentrating, since his mind is reeling.

If Superman’s powers had come to him _gradually,_ who knew what else the alien could do, but did not _know_ he could do? As if he didn’t have enough of them. How did you fucking prepare contingencies for a being that might end up spontaneously spitting fire or growing a second head mid-battle?

Also, there had to be some environmental factor, something that accumulated in Clark’s cells over time, something that triggered the onset of his abilities. And if something triggered them, if there was a chemical factor in play, that meant Superman could be _affected._ If the process were to be reverse-engineered...

He wished he could ask Clark down to his lab, so he could test him with all the means he had (maybe he wishes that Clark would _consent_ to it, too). He doesn’t even know Clark’s opinion on the Bat of Gotham; the reporter hadn’t asked him anything about it. Frankly, he would have probably ended up defending himself, if his true identity had been brought up.

He ends up losing another hand. He should have folded.

Bruce grits his teeth. Even if there was a way to hurt Superman. What about the good Superman was doing? Human police could only do so much; not even Bruce could muster up the speed or the strength to handle natural disasters. Knowing that thousands of people _could_ have been saved, but weren’t because the one person able to save them was dead... Was that something he was willing to live with? Was it really as logical as he had thought, to take the alien out before he went rogue? After all, rogue or not, his abilities remained the same.

Maybe, but before Bruce would be able to get to him, Clark could still inflict a lot of damage. Those lives would also be on him.

Bruce curses.  People take it as a sign of his frustration at losing. And maybe he is losing, he realizes. He’s actually looking for excuses _not_ to attack the alien anymore. In the end, he hadn’t been the only one to get under the other’s skin.

He knows he needs a drink, so he has one. And another, and another, until they blur. He’s still in control – he can’t ever not be. But his steps falter infinitesimally as he opens the door to their room that night. His hands shake slightly as he changes his clothes. He hits the bed a bit too hard.

 _How could it not affect you?_ he wonders as he stares at the sleeping form of Clark, next to him.  The addictive poison of violence. No man ever got out, not unscathed, not without some lurking darkness clawing at the back of his head. Every living, breathing, self-aware human being on the planet -- they were all fighting something, trying to prove something, defining themselves by their  _actions._ Life was a never-ending battle.

But Clark wasn't human, was he? And even though he had been raised by humans, he had went through an entirely different experience, as a child. Always having to control himself, always having to be careful; always afraid he'd accidentally crush the people around him, like ants. How could someone constantly live with the thought of their own power, from infancy to adulthood, and  _not..._ become warped by it? 

He's startled by the sound of the covers. Clark was moving, inching towards him; actually, the man now looked like he was feigning sleep in a goddamn mattress commercial; on his back, barely covered, hands crossed on his chest. His expression is undisturbed, peaceful, tragically young and vulnerable. Bruce follows the quick darts of his eyes behind his eyelids, distantly wonders what he was dreaming about. He follows the rise and fall of the covers. Hears the regular rhythm of his breathing.

Bruce does something very childish and stupid, in retrospect. Logically, as long as Clark was breathing, blood flowed through his veins; something had to keep the blood pumping. But he must have underestimated his alcohol intake, since he ends up hovering over Clark, steadying himself by planting his hands into the covers, and leaning down slowly. 

There’s a steady heartbeat under his ear. There's warmth, too. _Of course there is, of course Clark is..._  Bruce thinks viciously, and he rises too abruptly –- his head feels like a ton of bricks. So he lies down and tries to drown out the feeling of helplessness, the one that makes him want to lash out by any means necessary.

When he wakes, the clock informs him it was nearly 12 PM. He had slept like a log, dreamless, undisturbed. The alcohol had finally proved itself useful. Clark was gone, of course; most likely taking his last interviews, since this was the last day of the cruise.

Huh. That was a strange thought. Bruce sits up, nearly groans; old age was catching up with him. Squinting in order to avoid the sun, he thinks back to the start, remembers the feeling of disbelief and anger at the sight of Clark entering the door. He hadn’t been wrong, taking this opportunity had paid off beautifully. But it had also... cost him.

This cruise hadn’t felt like seven days. It had felt like weeks, months. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, that he was on auto-pilot most of the time. The exceptions were the times he was with Clark, and those had felt like a timeline of their own.

There was a closing gala tonight, he remembers. He had to make himself presentable. He had to eat something; but in truth, he misses Alfred’s cooking fiercely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't know what that was, guys. Bruce did that on his own, as I was writing, so I went with it.  
>  but I really want thank you all so much for your comments, kudos, and everything else. this fic has become my baby, and it makes me happy other people love him too. we've only got one more chapter to go.


	7. conclusion

Bruce enters the room like he enters any other room – as if he owned it. He starts greeting his way through the crowd, smirks when it still parts for him like the Red Sea, after all these years. Grabs a glass of champagne, starts gushing about how fun this cruise was, how he didn’t even the passing of time, how he was so sorry it was ending.

Ironically, he was. The room mix-up was a godsend. If he and Clark had met in different circumstances, it was very unlikely they would have gotten along; nevermind the possibility of Bruce getting information out of him. Living together had forced them to be... closer. Not quite friends, nor strangers. But sharing rooms was still something intimate, something he hadn’t done in decades.

He chats for a while with Vicki Vale, resists her subtle pleas for an official interview. He still liked her brazen attitude, her wits. She wasn’t nearly as young as she had lied she was, and he had seen through her act from the start. She had wanted to get close to him. Sometimes, when people were being smart about it, Bruce felt a bit better.

Anna was avoiding saying hello, probably too embarassed. She hadn’t even asked herself for an interview, she had Clark do it. Speaking of Clark – he was avoiding mingling by whispering occasionally in the ear of a photographer, and occasionally sipping on his drink. Which left him unfairly unaffected.

Bruce resists the urge to go over there, drowns it out by falling into the well-rehearsed pattern of social chit-chat. Surrounds himself with people. Hank Silvius, the man who had approached him before with a partnership idea, invites him out on deck for a cigar.

He hadn’t smoked a cigar in ages. So he says yes. Silvius has to know that Wayne Enterprises would never associate itself with the likes of him; the man had lawsuit upon lawsuit sitting on his desk, and a debt the size of a small planet. He had no care for who or what he destroyed to get money.

It’s peaceful outside. Nearly midnight. They would be arriving in New York in 8 hours. He feels strange, holding the cigar in his left hand, and not the right. He breathes it in; the smoke coils up gracefully.

”Have you given any thought to my... proposition?” Silvius asks, warily.

”I’m sorry,” Bruce shakes his head. ”I don’t think it’s a good idea. That land might be rich in natural gases, but we’re talking about an entire ecosystem.”

”So what,” Silvius says between his teeth.

”Wayne Enterprises will not touch this project with a ten feet pole,” Bruce says dryly. Silvius needed to get it through his thick head.

He finally seems to, as he takes a long breath. Closes his eyes, exhales.

”I’m sorry. I get it, I get why. I’ve just been... well, stressed is an understatement,” Silvius apologizes.

He turns around sharply when he senses movement behind them; they both do.

”Waiter! Two glasses of wine for me and my friend here,” the blond man calls out, gesturing towards Bruce.

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but Silvius just shakes his head.

”Come on, let me make it up to you. I heard wine is your favorite,” he smiles.

”You might have heard right,” Bruce concedes with an exaggerated sigh.

When the waiter returns, Silvius turns around to pick up the glasses, and Bruce throws his cigar butt into the water.

”To better times,” Silvius says, raising his glass, but Bruce never gets to raise his.

The glass just _shatters_ in his hand. He barely has time to react, as he feels someone put a hand up on his shoulder. Looks back, and there’s Clark, jaw clenched. Bruce had nearly forgotten their height difference, but he was actually taller than Superman.

”Would you excuse us for a moment,” Clark says darkly as he drags Bruce away inside the cruise ship, on the hallway that lead to the suites.

”What the hell, Kent?” Bruce questions angrily, trying to wrench his arm out of the reporter’s hold.

”He was going to poison you,” Clark says sharply, letting go. ”He poured something into the wine glass, before he turned around and gave it to you. It smelled like tetrodotoxin.”

Bruce just... stares. Processes.

”You’re welcome for not letting you die a very painful death,” Clark breathes out, and it feels like he wanted it to be bitter and angry, but it just sounds... relieved.

”How did you _see_ it happen, you weren’t there,” Bruce growls out. ”And you can _smell_ tetrodotoxin?”

Clark sighs.

”I can see through things. It’s a different sort of... vision. It’s like seeing in x-rays.”

Bruce absently files it in the Superman category inside his brain: supersmell, x-ray vision.

”And you were spying on us, _through the wall,_ because...?” he can’t help but ask, suspiciously.

”His heartbeat picked up like crazy,” Clark explained. ”That’s when I looked, since I couldn’t figure out what made him react like that only by listening to your conversation. I thought he might have been hyperventilating.”

Huh. Bruce had to admit; for quite some time, he had thought Superman was nothing more than his powers. Because that was the image that came to mind, when Superman was mentioned: floods, earthquakes, fires, terrorist attacks. As if he actively looked for the events with the most visibility, so that he could flaunt his otherworldly nature all over the news. As a result, people didn’t associate that obnoxious S on Clark’s chest with the little things, the little guy, the day-to-day crimes.  However, this proved the general assumption wrong. It was very possible that Clark's encounter with the serial killer in Metropolis had amplified his fears a thousandfold, and this... hypervigilence was the result. Was Clark _constantly_ monitoring everything around him, always looking for signs of trouble, always on edge, just to be sure he didn’t let anyone die?

Bruce wouldn’t have died, not really. This wasn’t the first time someone tried to kill Bruce Wayne. It must have been a small amount of the toxin, so it would not to change the taste of the wine. That meant he would have had at least 4 hours before the symptoms started showing. He would have had the time to get to his emergency case, the one he always had with him, for situations like these. He had everything in there – from tracking devices to antidotes to poison (although mostly Scarecrow’s toxin).

Still, it’s... fascinating and painful, to see it up-close: that Clark had been worried. That Clark had been _scared_. He would have definitely felt like that if any other human was in danger. Clark’s first instinct was to protect.

It wasn’t an alien he saw, anymore. He didn’t see a potential god, or a possible threat, or any of the shadows his paranoid mind had wrapped around Clark. He saw a man who wanted to help.  

He grits his teeth, clenches his fists, doesn’t let any of his emotions show. Admitting it felt worse than actually swallowing the tetrodotoxin. Because deep down, Clark Kent was a good person. And deep down, Bruce Wayne wasn’t.

”Thank you,” he clears his throat, when the silence stretches on a little too much. Remembers to act like a normal person in such a situation. ”You saved my life, I... I really didn’t think he’d go that far.”

”I got there in time,” Clark says resolutely, soothingly. ”That’s what matters.”

Bruce swallows against the lump in his throat.

”We should get back to the party,” he says, a bit too hastily, actually craving the distraction provided by the crowd, for once.

”And let him get away with it? Bruce, he tried to _kill_ you,” Clark asserted incredulously.

 _Not the first, definitely not the last,_ Bruce thinks tiredly.

”We can’t prove anything,” he responds with a small sigh. ”You broke the glass with... heat vision. It would only be our word against his. Charging him with anything would be a waste of time.”

Clark opens his mouth and then shuts it back. He’s frowning, brows furrowed.

”He didn’t succeed,” Bruce tries again. ”That’s what matters.”

Clark finally nods, a grim expression on his face. Bruce turns around to head for the party, listens for the the other man's footsteps. He follows. 

*

They’re both aware it’s the last night, when they walk up to their room. Clark is tentative, awkward, because Bruce had acted distant since the party ended. He didn’t let Clark see anything of the Bruce he had come to know; it was as if he was on auto-pilot, and none of Clark’s attempts to break through the frustrating veneer _worked._

Bruce was too immersed in his own thoughts to care. He had to... find something else. He needed a different plan, something solid. Yes, he didn’t intend (or want) to kill the alien anymore. But he could not trust the world not to fuck Clark up, either.

Neither Bruce, or Clark say anything, but after they get into bed, neither of them actually sleeps.

Bruce’s mind is working too feverishly. Clark just can’t trust himself to sleep without dreaming about Bruce dying, him not being there to knock the glass out in time. Can’t stop the same running stream of thought, the same question that had embedded itself in his brain: _how many was he missing?_ He can’t stop himself from listening to every sound, every breath, every word around him.

So they lie in bed, unnaturally still, back to back and eyes wide shut.

In the morning, Bruce gets an update from the Batcave’s computers. Something important. He opens it while a member of the staff packs the last of his shirts into the suitcase; he sips on his black coffee while his eyes focus on the screen. It seemed they had finally found something important, but not enough to _matter._ A shard from the engine of the Kryptonian ship that glowed brightly green, and that caused the dead Kryptonian’s cell to deteriorate even when in the slightest proximity to it. It was able to cut him, too.  

If there was a God out there, he was a sadistic bastard.

Clark was packing his own things. He had offered to help Bruce pack too, since he couldn’t do it with one hand, but Bruce downright refused, and had called upon someone. Bruce stares absently at the green glow of the laptop screen, then at the back of the man on the other side of the room, hastily bundling up clothes and organizing notes.

He’s known he was going to steal the glowing rock from the moment he saw it. Hell, before he even knew of its existence. Now, though, he didn’t just want it for himself; he also didn’t want anyone else to have a means to hurt Superman. Even though he trusted no one, the safest hands were still his own.

Clark’s thought run in a lighter direction, although still riddled with doubt. He doesn’t know how to interact with Bruce. He keeps thinking that they’re from different worlds, that he might meet Bruce Wayne once or twice a year at public events, but that... he wouldn’t meet _Bruce._ He’d just get the fake, dulled down version, and for some reason, that’s just not enough.

They’re both quiet when they disembark, walking next to each other. Bruce can see Lois on the other side of the port, waving. Clark sees her too, and his heart swells in his chest; he had missed her so much.

When they get on the ground, Bruce can finally see Alfred waiting next to his favorite black car. For a second, they just stand there awkwardly, staring at each other, surrounded by the flow of people.

”Do you mind if I... drop by, some time?” Clark breaks the silence abruptly, looking away. His glasses are crooked, like last week, Bruce notes absently.

In truth, Clark feels downright _nervous_. Against all odds, he grew to like Bruce’s company, even though he didn't really think much of him, in the beginning. But Bruce hadn’t panicked when he found out about his secret identity. Hadn’t ratted him out, hadn’t held the injury Clark had inadvertently caused him against him. Rather, he _helped._

He doesn’t want to think about what his state of mind would have ended up like, if Bruce hadn't been there to ground him.

”I won’t be fool enough to try and chase Superman out of the Manor,” Bruce resorts to joking, in the end. ”I’m sure Alfred would love the company.”

Clark beams at him, and it’s the first time he gets that... brilliant smile, directed at him. The reporter extends his hand, and Bruce grips it. This time, Clark’s fingers aren’t jelly.

”See you around, then,” Clark says with bright eyes as he lets go, making his way through the crowd.

Bruce follows him with his eyes.

”See you around,” he murmurs, knowing he’ll be heard. Means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah. so I know that doesn't feel very... end-like. more like a ''it remains to be seen''. this fic keeps screaming ''CONTINUE ME!! MY CONCEPTUAL JOURNEY IS NOT OVER YET!!''  
> so, I'll be turning it into a series. aka, I'll write a sequel. most likely a BvS rewrite, but taking this first meeting as their canon one, and exploring its consequences. I'm almost rubbing my hands like a goddamn villain, because damn, the potential for drama is high.  
> so, thank you so much for following the fic up until now! and thank you all, so much, for all of your comments, kudos, bookmarks and subscribes. I love you all.   
> ...I could not help that Hush reference.


End file.
